


Why Are You Here?

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night Grantaire shows up at Enjolras and Combeferre's apartment. And then he just keeps showing up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Are You Here?

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer: I own nothing. Mistakes can be blamed entirely on my beta, a slovenly and lazy individual you can yell at [here](http://kjack89.tumblr.com).

One night, out of the blue, Grantaire showed up at Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartment. He was completely drunk, and luckily for him, Enjolras wasn’t home to see him like that.

Combeferre told him as such, when he opened the door. “Enjolras isn’t home,” he said, keeping judgment clear from his voice.

Grantaire nodded, blinking blearily at him. “That’s good,” he slurred, holding on to the doorframe as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. “Wouldn’t want him…see me like this.” He then pitched forward and more or less fell against Combeferre, who only just managed to catch him.

Looking down at him, Combeferre sighed heavily and dragged him inside, depositing him on the couch. “If you throw up, you’re cleaning it,” he informed Grantaire, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at him over the top of his glasses. “And you’re not going anywhere tomorrow morning until we have a conversation about your drinking.”

With that, he left Grantaire on the couch, closing his bedroom door with a definitive snap.

Grantaire was passed out long before Enjolras came home, and thus was not subjected to his world-weary sigh upon seeing Grantaire on his couch, as well as the strange look that crossed his face before he shook his head and went into his bedroom.

He was also gone before Grantaire awoke to the smell of bacon frying. He rolled over and blinked blearily at Combeferre, who appeared to be wearing an apron.

Clearly he was still drunk.

Grantaire would’ve passed out again were it not for Combeferre actually standing in front of him, pan of bacon in one hand, very clearly wearing the apron that Grantaire thought he had hallucinated, and asking him, “How do you want your eggs?”

Blinking up at him, Grantaire managed, “I don’t fucking know. Poached.”

Ten minutes later, Grantaire was slumped in a chair at Combeferre and Enjolras’s kitchen table with two perfectly poached eggs on the plate in front of him (plus three slices of bacon and an English muffin). There was also a glass of water on the table, and Grantaire rolled his eyes at Combeferre. “Coffee?” he grunted.

“Drink your water first, then you can have coffee,” Combeferre told him firmly.

Grantaire made a face but acquiesced, drinking about half of his water in one gulp before tackling his plate of food. “This is really good,” he muttered through a full mouth.

Combeferre arched an eyebrow at him as he sipped his coffee. “You sound surprised by that.”

“Not surprised,” Grantaire protested, draining the rest of his water and looking longingly at Combeferre’s coffee cup. “I just never really thought of you as the kind of person to cook, you know?”

Chuckling slightly, Combeferre stood to get Grantaire a cup of coffee. “I wasn’t,” he admitted. “Not until I lived with Enjolras and it became clear that if neither of us learned to cook, we would both starve. And since I’m sure you can’t imagine Enjolras learning to cook…” He trailed off, turning back to Grantaire. “Cream or sugar?” he asked lightly, as if trying to steer the topic from Enjolras.

“Neither, thanks.” Grantaire accepted the mug and drank from it like a man dying of thirst. After a long moment, he asked quietly, “So, uh, I hope I didn’t make anything awkward with Enjolras. I mean, I knew he wasn’t going to be here last night, because he was studying in the library, but, well, I hadn’t expected to stay when I got here last night, so…”

Combeferre shook his head. “No, Enjolras didn’t seem to care. He left pretty early this morning.”

Grantaire nodded, faraway look on his face, and quickly finished his breakfast. “Speaking of leaving, I should get out of your hair…”

The glare he received from Combeferre was enough to keep him in his seat. “Not until we talk about what happened last night. Why were you drunk, Grantaire?”

“Why am I ever drunk?” Grantaire shot back. When Combeferre just looked at him, Grantaire frowned and looked away. “I don’t know. I…it was a bad day yesterday, ok?”

“Ok.” Combeferre’s voice was quiet, gentle even, and Grantaire flushed slightly, keeping his eyes glued determinedly on the table. “I thought you were trying to cut back. So what changed?”

Grantaire shrugged. “What changed? How about the fact that I realized I’m weak and really fucking needed a drink?”

Combeferre’s voice sharpened. “Hey, you’re  _not_  weak. Look at me.” Grantaire reluctantly looked at him, at his gray eyes icy sharp behind his glasses. “You’re  _not_  weak. And it’s ok if you need help sometimes. So next time, just come over, ok? Preferably before you get drunk, but our door is always open, Grantaire.”

Nodding, Grantaire bit his lip, still pink. “Thanks,” he said in a quiet voice, even as he stood up, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I’ll, uh, I’ll remember that. And, um, thanks for letting me crash here. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” Combeferre told him, standing as well. “And I do mean that. Anytime.”

Grantaire nodded and said, “Right. Well. I should go. Thanks for everything.”

Just when Grantaire had reached the door, Combeferre called after him, “Hey Grantaire?” Grantaire turned, but didn’t respond, waiting for Combeferre to continue. “If you knew Enjolras wasn’t going to be here last night, then why did you come here?”

Grantaire seemed to freeze for a moment, but then he just shrugged. “Why does a drunk do anything?” he asked in return before opening the door and calling over his shoulder, “See you later. Thanks for breakfast!”

* * *

 

Grantaire took Combeferre up on his offer, showing up at Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartment, often at odd times of the morning, more often than not drunk or on his way to being drunk. Combeferre would always let him in, steer him to the couch, and tell him that they’d talk in the morning.

In the morning, Combeferre would cook him breakfast, and they would talk. It was remarkably therapeutic, even if Grantaire would deny it. Combeferre was an excellent listener, never judging Grantaire, never making him promises, only making quiet offers of help that Grantaire refused more often than not.

And they talked about things besides Grantaire’s drinking. Combeferre asked him questions that Grantaire hadn’t answered or thought about in years - why he had gotten into painting, what his hopes and dreams were, what he did in his spare time when he was alone in his apartment. And in the meantime, Grantaire learned a million and one different things about Combeferre, like the way Combeferre took his coffee (two sugars, one cream), and the way he could get so passionate talking about something that he was liable to knock things over, or the way he unabashedly made pancakes into fun shapes like dinosaurs and smiley faces and the way he  _giggled_ , for Christ’s sake.

Every time, it ended the same way, Grantaire standing and walking toward the door as Combeferre asked him, “Why did you come here, Grantaire?”

They both knew that he meant more than just that day, that he was looking for an answer for that first day, for why Grantaire kept coming back.

Grantaire never gave a straight answer.

“Because Jehan was busy.”

“Because you make the best breakfast in the city.”

“Because your couch is the most comfortable of all our friends.”

“Because it’s cheaper than a hotel.”

“Because I couldn’t find my keys.”

“Because I never miss an opportunity to take advantage of my friends’ hospitality.”

“Because I fucking felt like it.”

Then he would wave and be gone.

Neither of them mentioned the fact that Grantaire was coming over more and more often. Neither of them mentioned that Grantaire seemed to have cut down on drinking in excess except for those nights when he would stumble over to Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartment.

Neither of them talked about the fact that Grantaire always seemed to pick nights when he knew that Enjolras wasn’t going to be there.

* * *

 

It was 11 o’clock at night almost on the nose, and Combeferre sat in the armchair in the living room, alternating between looking down at his watch and looking at the door.  _3…2…1…_

A knock, and Combeferre was at the door in five seconds. “Couch,” he said, in lieu of a greeting, taking Grantaire’s arm and steering him there. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Grantaire just nodded, staring at him almost vacantly. “Thanks,” he whispered, lying down on the couch. “See you in the morning.”

The next morning went much the same as usual, Grantaire teasing Combeferre over the book on moths he had found on the coffee table, Combeferre jokingly threatening him with the spatula and attempting to withhold the waffles from him.

Once breakfast was done, Grantaire stretched. “Well,” he said lightly. “I should be going.”

Not this time. This time, Combeferre was not going to make it easy on him. He beat Grantaire to the doorway and stood in front of it, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Why did you come here, Grantaire?”

Grantaire shook his head and looked away. “Because I knew you would be home.”

“Not good enough.” Combeferre’s voice was firm, but not harsh. “Not this time.” He paused, but Grantaire didn’t look at him. “Why did you come here?”

Sighing, Grantaire shook his head again. “Because it’s ingrained in my feet to wander this way when I’m drunk.”

“Damnit, Grantaire, tell me the truth!” Combeferre was never one to yell, so the snarl that seemed to tear its way from his throat took Grantaire aback, and he froze in place, staring at the ground. Reaching out, Combeferre took his shoulders gently in his hands, trying to force him to look him in the eyes. “Why did you come here?”

“Because you let me!” Grantaire burst out, blinking rapidly against the onslaught of tears suddenly pricking in his eyes. “Because you could’ve turned me away that first night and you didn’t. Because you’ve never turned me away. Because you’re actually nice to me and never judge me and just let me sleep it off without kicking me out or without making me do anything! Because our conversations the morning after are enough to keep me going without hating myself for awhile. Because…” He paused, turning his face back to Combeferre’s, gnawing on his lip for a long moment. “Because the past few times I haven’t even been drunk. I just…I wanted to see you.”

Combeferre stared at him for a long moment, hands tightening on his shoulders. “What about that first night?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I thought, if you saw me at my worst, you wouldn’t want me and then this whole crush or whatever it was might go away…”

“That wasn’t nearly your worst,” Combeferre told him, gently. “And I would never not want you. And definitely not because of that.” Then he pulled Grantaire to him, kissing him softly, gently. Grantaire froze before melting into it, kissing him back, wrapping his arms around Combeferre’s waist, balling his fist in the back of Combeferre’s t-shirt. They kissed for a long moment, the kiss deepening, strengthening, Grantaire pushing Combeferre back against the door, licking his way into Combeferre’s mouth as Combeferre groaned against his lips, gripping Grantaire’s hair with both his hands.

When they broke apart, Combeferre rested his forehead against Grantaire’s and whispered breathlessly, “This whole time, I thought…Enjolras…”

Grantaire shook his head without moving away from Combeferre, pressing their lips together for a brief moment. “This was never about Enjolras. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Good,” Combeferre whispered, running a hand through Grantaire’s hair, brushing it back from his face as he cupped Grantaire’s cheek, running his thumb down Grantaire’s cheek. “Because I think I might be in love with you. And of the many things I share with Enjolras, I am  _not_  willing to share you.”

A smile lit up Grantaire’s face and he laughed quietly. “Good,” he said. “Because I love you, too. And I’m not sharing you, either.”

They kissed again, softly and sweetly, and then Combeferre let go of Grantaire to lace their fingers together. “Come back to bed with me,” he commanded softly.

He didn’t need to ask a second time.

* * *

 

Grantaire stopped needing to make up excuses to come over after that.

And he never showed up drunk again.

And every morning, when they would wake up together, Combeferre would kiss Grantaire gently and ask him softly, “Why did you come here?”

Grantaire would smile, kiss him back, and tell him truthfully, “I came here for you.”


End file.
